


i can hardly wait to hold you (enfold you)

by doctor_whatthefuck



Series: all mine [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Forced Orgasm, Forced Pregnancy, Impregnation, Kidnapping, M/M, Mind Control, Non-Consensual Drug Use, One-Sided Relationship, Oviposition, Trans Male Characters, Web Martin Blackwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:08:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22869871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor_whatthefuck/pseuds/doctor_whatthefuck
Summary: Martin's been given a gift by the Mother of Puppets. A gift he wants nothing more than to share with Jon. And if Jon won't accept it of his own free will, well. Martin's sure he'll learn.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: all mine [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1650154
Comments: 8
Kudos: 206





	i can hardly wait to hold you (enfold you)

**Author's Note:**

> inspired and beta'd the incredible the_ragnarok, without whom none of this would have happened. if u like this go give their fics some love  
> again, this is real bad. please, for the love of god, read the tags  
> disclaimer: author is a trans guy  
> title from all mine by portishead

Jon opens his eyes to darkness.

For a terrifying second, he thinks there’s something wrong with his vision, that he’s been blinded. But when his frantic search for light causes something to scrape over his cheekbones, he realises he’s only blindfolded. One of the heavy duty ones, from the feel of it; an eye mask lined with thick foam that blocks out his entire vision, leaving him in total darkness. He tries to reach up, get it off, but his arms are so awfully heavy. All he can manage is a twitch.

Fine, no vision then. Forcing himself to think past the strange fuzziness in his head and the panic beginning to bleed through it, he listens to his surroundings. Hard to manage anything else, right now.

He’s in a car, judging by the movement beneath him. The quality of the noise is strange, muffled but all around him – in a boot, perhaps? Wherever he is, it’s ridiculously comfortable; he’s lying on some sort of foam, supported by cushions and swaddled in a soft, fleecy blanket.

Jon opens his mouth to call out – for help, for something – but all it does is unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, and the sudden awareness of how dry it is makes him wince. When he coughs, he feels something catch against his lips. A cool, plasticky something, slightly damp. On instinct more than anything else, he leans forward enough to catch it in his mouth. A few drops of water fall onto his tongue, and when he sucks on it more comes out. Though his immediate association is with a hamster cage, Jon still finds himself drinking deeply.

Thirst sated, he lets his head fall back onto the pillow he’d woken up on, and tries to think past the haze. Every time he tries to reach for a memory he finds himself falling deeper into warm lassitude; he’s so warm, so comfortable, what does it matter if he has no idea how he ended up drugged in the boot of a car? Jon bites his lip sharply, and the spark of pain as the chapped flesh splits clear his head a little.

He grasps at fragments, sifting through the fog. The Institute’s library, after hours for everyone but the Archives staff. Another tense and exhausted night, researching the Unknowing with Basira. Trying to find something, anything, that would make the impossible mess a little clearer. Trying not to think about… what? 

A cold thrill slides down his spine, and Jon flinches a little. Martin, that was it. His assistant, Martin, gone when he returned from the US. Martin, who nobody had seen for weeks.

Martin, who had found them as they browsed the stacks.

Memory floods back in a rush, and this time Jon does cry out, a half-scream of shock that he quickly clamps down on. Terror slashes violently through the remaining fog as he remembers Basira clutching her neck, face twisted in sudden pain before untwisting just as suddenly. Remembers Martin lowering her limp body carefully into a chair as Jon had stared at him, mind blank with shock.

Martin’s eyes had been different, beetle black instead of hazel brown. Jon isn’t certain, but he thinks there had been more of them.

Then arms around him, warm and soft and deceptively strong, as Jon had discovered when he’d regained himself enough to struggle. A sharp pain in his neck, then a rush of warm weightlessness. Then… nothing.

He squeezes his eyes shut, forces himself to think. Martin must have, what, betrayed them? The thought is ludicrous – the others, he could accept, even understand. It wasn’t as if any of them wanted to be anywhere near the Archives, and if they’d decided that serving another entity was a better option, Jon doubts he’d even feel particularly betrayed. But Martin? As much as he hated his captivity, Martin had always been loyal to… well. To Jon.

Not that he’d ever brought it up, of course, but even he’s not unobservant enough to miss that Martin fancies him. Perhaps, had circumstances been different, he would have mentioned it, would even have done something about it. But as it stood, while he hadn’t been willing to complicate their already complicated lives further, Martin’s loyalty hadn’t been something Jon had needed to doubt. It had been a comfort.

Now… he doesn’t know what to think, now.

It’s the Web, probably. The extra eyes, the chitinous gleam of the pincers that had darted impossibly out of Martin’s jaw to inject his – Christ, his venom. Now he’s recovered enough to move a little, he can feel sticky-soft threads tying his wrists together. And doesn’t _that_ thought make him want to scream.

A second later, he does actually cry out, as they pass over _something_ . It feels almost like being back in the wax museum – a sudden, wrenching _absence_ in the back of his mind, like having a weighted blanket ripped off him. Somehow, he’s moved out of the gaze of the Eye, and it’s horrible. He feels stripped naked, utterly powerless.

As the venom slowly filters out of his system, controlling his breathing becomes more and more difficult. His thoughts are spiralling, mind unable to make sense of what’s happening to him. When the car slows and the smooth hiss of tarmac changes to the rougher grind of a dirt track, he very nearly starts hyperventilating.

From far away, he hears the car stop. The driver’s door opens, and slow, unhurried footsteps circle round to the boot. Jon tries desperately to steady his breathing, horribly glad of the blindfold that hides the growing wetness in his eyes.

When the boot is opened, no light makes it through Jon’s blindfold, but a wave of fresh, cold air washes over him. _Too_ fresh, smelling of wet earth and not a lot else – there’s no way they’re in London still, or anywhere near it.

“How are you feeling?” a soft, tentative voice asks him, and Jon clamps his lips shut. Whatever _this_ is, he does not intend to cooperate. Martin is… wrong. There is something very wrong with him, and he can no longer be trusted.

Above him, Martin lets out a slightly wobbly sigh. “Okay, I get it. If I’d woken up in a car boot, I probably wouldn’t be very talkative either.” A rustle of clothing indicates movement, but the gentle hand on his arm still makes Jon flinch, hard. His head knocks into the back of the boot, and Martin lets out a worried little noise.

“It’s okay, Jon. I’m going to get you out of there.” Sure enough, before he can struggle further he’s being lifted out of the boot, held in careful arms. The abrupt movement sends pain pulsing through his stiff limbs, and his head abruptly _aches_. He can’t quite bite down a whimper, and immediately hates himself for it.

“Shhh,” Martin murmurs, and presses his lips to Jon’s temple. Abruptly, the pain washes away, leaving him limp and gasping in its wake.

_”Don’t do that!”_ he snarls, fear twisting viciously in his gut. Martin had just, just reached into him and _stopped_ his nerves firing, had adjusted his brain with no more than a press of his lips – what more could he do, if he wanted to? Behind his eyes, a nameless boy walks stiffly to his death, and Jon feels another tear slip out of his eyes.

“Oh, Jon,” Martin murmurs, “I’m sorry. I just didn’t want you to be in pain, that’s all.” He actually has the gall to sound remorseful, and Jon wants to hit him, tear him apart, but even if his body would cooperate he knows that wouldn’t end well for him. Martin’s always been strong, but now he holds Jon as easily as a baby.

Martin starts walking away from the car, and Jon is grateful for the blanket still draped over him, because it’s _cold_ out here. From far away, Jon can hear the sound of branches moving in the wind in the wind, and a particularly strong gust sweeps over him. He catches himself pressing into Martin’s warmth, and freezes when he feels something shift strangely on Martin’s skin. It prickles slightly, even through the blanket, and Jon’s skin crawls. He leans as far away as possible, working very hard not to noticeably flinch.

They soon reach what must be a door, Martin juggling Jon in his arms to free a rattling key ring. He shoulders the door open, carrying Jon over the threshold into a blessedly warm house. He actually bothers to toe off his shoes at the door, if the shifting is any indication. At this point in his life, Jon’s been kidnapped enough that he can compare instances, and this is definitely the most domestic.

Martin carries him through the warm house, eventually setting him down on what feels like a sofa. As soon as he’s released, Jon is trying to shove away from him, to push to his feet. It’s no use – he doesn’t have full range of motion yet, and when he tries to move his legs he finds them hobbled, bands of pressure tightening at his knees and ankles. More spider-silk, most likely.

“Jon, Jon, relax!” Martin says, and heavy hands descend on his shoulders, pushing him down into the cushions. No matter how he twists and fights, he’s too weak to dislodge them, and eventually he subsides with a noise he doesn’t want to call a sob.

“There,” Martin murmurs, one hand moving to cup his face when he realises that Jon is done struggling for now. His palm is dry and warm, incredibly gentle on Jon’s rough, scarred cheek. Head still hazy with venom and fear, it takes all of Jon’s considerable stubbornness to stop himself leaning into the touch.

“We’re safe here,” Martin continues. “This place is protected from the other powers, I bet you can feel it. Elias can’t find us here. Which means I can take this off,” he continues, and his hands run over Jon’s hair until they’re curled around the straps of the blindfold.

“Close your eyes,” Martin murmurs, so close to Jon’s ear that it sends a shiver up his spine, and Jon obeys. When the blindfold comes away, the light pressing on his eyelids seems piercing, painful, and he flinches back a little. Martin cradles his head, shushes him, until Jon feels strong enough to open his eyes. He almost doesn’t want to – as if by keeping them closed, he can stop this being real – but that’s just childish thinking.

When he slowly raises his eyelids, the first thing he sees is Martin. Familiar, soft-faced Martin smiling sweetly at him. Familiar, but for his eyes, which are still the pure black of an arachnid, chilling Jon to the core.

At the very least, he’s back to only having two of them.

He forces his gaze away, sends it spinning around the room. It’s almost disgustingly cosy, an old farmhouse by the looks of it, and decorated in a warm, rustic style. The light is much less bright that he’d thought at first, just a few lamps glowing warm and yellow, and a fire crackling in the grate.

Jon considers asking who had lit the fire, tended it, when Martin must have been driving for at least a couple of hours to get him so far out of London.

“Are we alone?” he asks instead. Best to know how many spider monsters he’s going to have to deal with first.

“Yeah, we’re the only people here. There’s spiders, of course, in an old building like this, but I’ll make sure they don’t bother you.” Martin grins brightly when he says, “I remember that you’re arachnophobic,” like he wants some sort of reward.

Jon mutters, “Thank you kindly,” but Martin doesn’t seem to pick up on the sarcasm. He asks, “Where are we?”

“A long way from London. We’re kind of close to where I grew up, actually. Nice and quiet.” Martin’s smile is probably intended to be reassuring. “Like I said, we’re safe here. Nobody is going to find us.”

And isn’t that a comforting thought.

“Basira…” he starts, but stops talking when he feels his voice tremble. She’d been so limp, draped over the library chair, head lolling. A marionette with cut strings.

“She’ll be fine, probably woke up hours ago.” Martin’s face twists a little, his disgustingly genuine good humour faltering. “I wouldn’t hurt her, you know that. You know me, Jon.”

“Do I?” Jon snorts. Perhaps it would be smarter to keep his mouth shut, but he simply doesn’t _care_ , not right now. “Martin, you’re an avatar now, aren’t you?”

Martin shrugs, showing no sign of concern. “I suppose so, yeah. I gave myself over, if that’s what you mean, and I don’t think it’s reversible.” He smiles again, bright and hopeful in a way that sends a shudder straight through Jon. “Not that I want to reverse it – this was the best decision I made in, well, ever.”

“And what did it cost?”

Martin makes a considering noise. “I’m not human anymore, so I suppose it cost that. But I don’t really mind, not when I compare it to everything I’ve gained in return.”

“Which is what, exactly?” This time, Jon pushes, grasping at that ephemeral energy he recognises from live statements, from the times he’s asked questions and been answered instantly. He has no idea whether or not it’ll work – he still can’t feel the Eye on him, and the Web is all about control; why would it allow a foreign power to control its own?

Though perhaps he’s wrong about that, because when Martin speaks it’s with the familiar, uninhibited ease of a statement-giver, words flowing without a trace of self-consciousness. “It’s really freeing, you know? I mean, I haven’t really been in control of my life for years, not since I joined the Institute, and not really before that either. At least now, I’ve chosen the thing controlling me of my own free will.” He laughs a little at that, like he’s told a joke. “And that honestly feels great. I don’t have to worry about whether I’m doing the right thing anymore. I know I am, cause the right thing is whatever the Mother of Puppets wants me to do.”

“You really believe that.” Jon is a fool, he really is – he could have sworn he’d given up on Martin already, written him off as an enemy, another person he couldn’t save. But the calm, earnest expression he’s wearing now, the sheer _peace_ that weaves through his answer, leaves Jon sick and deadened with finality. Martin’s made his choice, and Gerry Keay’s shade had been very clear on what that meant. There’s no way back for him now, and that _hurts_ when it sinks in.

If Martin notices how his words have torn through Jon, he doesn’t give any indication. “You just compelled me, Jon, you tell me.” He doesn’t seem angry or offended, unlike the other avatars Jon had tried this on; the Web’s servants probably don’t care too much about being controlled. “And that’s not the only upside, either. I’m stronger now, more powerful. I can fight if I have to, but I _don’t_ have to – there’s so many better ways to solve problems, and the Mother’s given me plenty of options.” His smile twists even softer than before. “ And I can use all that strength to protect the people who matter. The people I love. Well, person, right now.”

Which is the thing, isn’t it? Jon can’t just sit here and mourn his latest loss, because he’s not here by choice. However familiar the face of this monster, he’s still in real and present danger. 

For a moment, Jon considers playing along. Falling into Martin’s arms, faking a love confession. Anything that will get Martin to drop his guard for long enough that Jon can get to the car. But he dismisses the idea just as quickly; that’s not him. He’s not going to be able to lie his way out of this, so he might as well be clear with Martin from the off.

He clears his throat, steels himself. “Martin… I’m sorry, but I don’t love you.”

Whatever recriminations he’s expecting, they don’t come. Martin’s voice is sad, yes, but still so terribly tender. “I know, Jon. It’s fine. That’ll come in time.”

The calm, assured certainty in that voice, the complete lack of any threat, sends a bolt of adrenaline through Jon. The last of the cobwebs burn from his mind, and he tenses _hard_. “I really don’t think it will,” he replies, voice twisted high with another sudden burst of fear.

Martin just _smiles_ at him, kind and gentle, like he’s a damn child who just doesn’t know what’s good for him. “I do. The Mother does. She’s not generally wrong about these things.”

“So what, are you going to _change my mind_ , then?” Jon snaps back. As ever, fear makes him combative – he wants to make Martin _hurt_ for this. “Get into my head, tug on my heartstrings? I’m sure it wouldn’t be much effort for you.”

“No, of course not!” Martin recoils a little. “That wouldn’t mean anything, if you only loved me because I told you that you had to. I don’t want a puppet, Jon, I want a partner. Need a partner, actually, but that’s beside the point.”

“Then you’ve picked the wrong person,” Jon replies. Then, “Hang on, what do you _need_ a partner for?” He forces another compulsion into this question, wreathing his words in staticky power.

“To start my family, of course,” Martin replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Suddenly his smile isn’t just soft, it’s downright _sappy_ . He rests a protective hand on his belly, cradling it, and Jon stares in shock. He’d thought Martin had just put on a little more weight, but now he’s looking, there’s a slight but definite protrusion lower down, just above his waistband. A _bump_.

_”What.”_

Martin sighs deeply. “I really wish you hadn’t done that, Jon. It would have been a lot easier to explain afterwards.”

“Well, I don’t give a damn what you _wish_ ,” Jon snaps back. “Explain it to me _now!”_

Suddenly, Martin lunges, clamps a hand tight over Jon’s mouth. He tries to wrench his head back, but by the time Martin lets go it’s too late. He can still move his lips, can still talk if the startled cry he manages is any indication, but he can feel sticky threads coating the back of his throat.

“I’m so sorry,” Martin tells him, still far too close into his personal space, “but I need you to stop compelling me, now. Bad enough that you managed this one, but I guess that’s on me, for not stopping you soon enough.” He reaches out again, this time to cup Jon’s face, and no matter how hard he tries he can’t get free. Martin’s skin is…not sticky, but he is definitely stuck to it somehow, some strange paralysis. Ridiculous visions of Spiderman sticking to ceilings pop into Jon’s mind, buoyed by hysteria.

“The Mother gave me a gift, Jon. Something I’ve always wanted, but I never thought I’d be able to have.” Martin takes Jon’s shock-limp hands, guides them to rest on the bump. “Children, my own children. I’m going to be a dad.” Martin’s smile is huge and wide, but it isn’t deranged – just _happy_. Bright and delighted, an easy brilliance to it Jon realises he’s never seen before.

“I can’t raise them to term,” Martin continues, “not on my own. They won’t be affected by the T, not like a human baby would, but my core body temperature isn’t warm enough anymore. That’s what being a bit spider-y will do to you, I guess. They’re not going to die or anything, but while I’m carrying them they won’t grow.”

“So what do you intend to do about that?” Jon asks numbly, still staring at where his hands rest on the undeniable curve of Martin’s…pregnancy? It’s not as if he hadn’t known his assistant was trans; he’d seen Martin without a binder often enough during his stay in the Archives, and one of the first really civil conversations they’d had was commiserating about shopping for work-appropriate clothing, and how irritating finding the right fit could be. It’s not surprise at the possibility that takes Jon so aback. The joy on Martin’s face just seems so at odds with his explanation that he can’t carry whatever monstrous children the Web had given him to term. _Too_ at odds. Something more is going on here, and perhaps his subconscious mind has already figured it out – dread is beginning to curdle in his stomach.

“Turns out, I’m really lucky.” Martin’s eyes meet his, sparkling with joy and inviting Jon to join him in it. The urge to smile back is so magnetic, Jon actually has to bite his lips shut against it. “I always knew we’d be good together, Jon, and it turns out we’re even better suited now. Cause I might not be able to carry these babies to term, but you can.”

_And there we go_ , Jon thinks, as the bile rises in his throat. “What are you planning then, some kind of surgery?”

“That’s not going to be necessary. Like I said, they’re not human babies, not totally, so they’re not going to be live births.” Martin takes one of Jon’s bound hands and presses it down on his belly, and now Jon can feel the strange texture of what’s inside. It’s… bumpy.

_Oh. Fuck._

Jon throws himself away from Martin with as much force as he can muster, tumbling off the sofa. He tries to use his momentum to push himself across the room – there won’t be a way to break the webs binding his legs, he knows that, but logic isn’t what’s powering him desperately _away_ from the monster that Martin has become.

And, of course, he fails. Martin scrambles after him, hoists him off the floor like a disobedient kitten and holds him tight. Jon thrashes, shouts until his throat is burning, yanks against his restraints even as he feels the skin around them chafe and tear, but it’s no use. He’s caught. 

Martin makes a wounded noise when the first few drops of blood seep into the webs around Jon’s wrists. Then he shifts Jon until one of Martin’s arms is under his thighs, and the other is tight in his hair. Jon redoubles his struggling as his neck is pulled taut, but he’s pinned against Martin’s body, Martin’s inhuman strength rendering him entirely powerless.

When Martin’s chelicerae sink into his neck again, Jon is struck by a perverse trickle of relief. Because it doesn’t matter now, that he can’t get free, that he’s not strong enough or smart enough to escape. Whatever terrible thing is going to happen to him, there’s no way out, all his choices taken away from him for good. He’ll simply fade out of consciousness, and when he wakes up it’ll be over.

Except, even as the power drains out of his limbs and leaves him hanging limp in Martin’s embrace, even as the cobwebs curl around his thoughts and make his head spin, he doesn’t _go_. The world is going soft at the edges, the pain in his wrists fading into gentle warmth and his resolve to keep fighting impossible to keep a grip on, but he’s undeniably conscious. He can still feel Martin’s arms, cradling instead of restraining now he’s been made docile, carrying him through the house and up the stairs. This time, Jon can’t move away from where he rests against Martin’s chest, and he’s certain that something is wrong with Martin’s skin. It’s too hard, oddly lumpy in places, and there’s a springy, prickly layer over it. Images of spider skin from one of his more triggering research binges flicker through Jon’s head.

The fear that spreads through him now is softer too; instead of a debilitating spike, it washes like icy water, drowning the momentary relief under a swell of nausea. Because of course, the Web isn’t going to allow him to sit his violation out, not when it can make him feel every moment of his helplessness and drink down his trapped terror.

Martin lays him on the bed so gently, making sure his head is resting on the pillows. It’s so soft, so comfortable, and his limbs have become so heavy. He lets his eyes fall shut, fantasises about sinking into the mattress, but of course he stays where he is.

“Is that better?” Martin coos at him, and Jon keeps his eyes closed as a lock of hair is brushed tenderly out of his face. He squeezes them shut, refuses to watch as the bindings around his limbs come loose and fall away. Martin takes his arms, fussing over his wrists and pressing soft kisses to the irritated skin, and it feels so horrifyingly good that Jon wants to scream.

“Your poor wrists,” Martin murmurs. “I’ll look after them now, okay?” He’s as good as his word, spreading some sort of cool cream over them before winding bandages around them. Martin is so careful with him, so very careful – when was the last time someone touched him with so much care? When was the last time someone even touched him, unless it was to hurt him?

This doesn’t really count though, does it? Martin _is_ going to hurt him.

Once his arms are taken care of, Martin moves down to his legs. The tugging pull on his limbs as foreign hands remove his shoes and socks sends icy terror lapping at his brain until he’s dizzy with it. It’s even worse when Martin’s big, broad hands rest on Jon’s bare skin, gently inspecting his ankles for abrasions. They apparently fared better, cushioned by his socks, but Martin still feels the need to kiss the sore skin, damn him to hell.

When Jon’s ankles have been inspected, Martin steps away, presumably to undress if the rustling of fabric is any indication. Jon resists his perverse urge to look – knowing what’s coming won’t make this better. Nothing could, really.

Then Jon’s jumper is being peeled slowly, carefully away. He throws the full weight of his will against the drugged lassitude, tries to move, to fight – but it’s no good. He’s as limp as a ragdoll, body moving as easily under Martin’s direction as if he truly were unconscious. His jumper comes over his head, then his shirt is unbuttoned – slowly, far too slowly, but of course Martin wouldn’t want to rush this. By the time he’s left in nothing but his vest, Jon wants his clothes back so badly he could scream.

He tries screaming, but all that comes on is a pathetic little whine, which does nothing but make Martin smile dotingly down at him when he finally opens his eyes. At the very least, whatever felt so wrong with Martin’s skin has gone, for now. Possibly to make him slightly less inclined to scream himself to death.

“I know, love, you’re shy. But you don’t have to worry, it’s only me. You know I’ll think you’re beautiful, no matter what.” A misty look glazes those awful black eyes. “I love you so much, do you know that? I’m so happy right now, Jon, you don’t even _know_.”

_Shut up_ , Jon aches to yell at him, _stop talking, stop fucking_ **_talking_ ** _._ But all he can manage is another shameful little whimper.

Martin’s broad, warm palms slide under his vest, rucking it carefully up over his ribs. And there it stays as Martin bends to press feather-light kisses on every worm scar he can find – and there’s plenty for him to kiss. Jon’s muscles twitch as he tries futilely to pull away – perhaps he’s not paralysed at all, perhaps the Web-made venom hasn’t taken his movement so much as it has taken his _control_ of that movement. Either way, each brush of lips sends him trying desperately to recoil, and each attempt only makes his powerlessness that much clearer.

When Martin finally eases the vest over his limp arms and starts to kiss his way up Jon’s chest, the first tear slips from Jon’s eye.

It’s so _much_ , awful and gentle and warm and agonising. Martin is crouched over him now, his belly brushing against Jon’s thighs as he bends to press his lips to Jon’s ribs, his top surgery scars, the jutting architecture of his shoulders. Each brush of skin on skin builds and builds, the venom infusing his nervous system making each touch good, so good, even as his mind screams at too much contact, after so long without. As if he’s stumbled in from the cold, only to be tossed into a tub of burning water. Not that it matters – no matter how good or how bad this feels, he’s going to lie here and have it inflicted on him regardless.

Finally, Martin reaches his neck, and Jon wishes so hard he almost chokes that Martin will bite him. Will be rough, cause him pain, anything that will make this easier to hate. Not that the venom would let him hurt, not right now. But when Martin rests his lips against Jon’s pulse, he’s still so gentle. Soft as a cobweb, and just as repulsive.

Martin rests there for a moment, and Jon registers that they’re both breathing fast. He himself would probably be hyperventilating if not for the venom, but he now realises that Martin is all but panting, flushed a brilliant red across his cheeks and down his freckled chest. His expression when he raises his head from Jon’s neck is awed, _worshipful_ , and when he kisses the tears away from Jon’s cheeks he sighs, like a devout believer taking communion.

“Oh, Jon,” he coos, “do you even know how wonderful you are, laid out for me like this? You’re so lovely, I’m so blessed.” He doesn’t try to kiss Jon on the mouth, thank God – if he had, Jon thinks he would have actually broken. It’s a strange line to draw, all things considered, but he’s still pathetically grateful he’s not going to lose one more thing.

Then Martin is kissing back down his body, down the trail of hair that leads to the waistband of his trousers, and Jon remembers that he’s probably going to break anyway. The sick dread that washes over him when Martin’s careful hands undo the catch and button, slowly slide his zip down, is contrasted horrifically with the feeling of Martin kissing his belly, all soft warmth that fills his venom-soaked mind to bursting. Jon lets his eyes fall closed, pushing more tears down his now wet cheeks – he is certain he does not want to see this.

Martin eases his trousers off with care, pressing his lips to every inch of skin revealed. He spends plenty of time on the knot of scar tissue left when Sasha dug that first worm out of his leg, caressing it with sweeps of his tongue that send sweeping bolts of pleasure radiating up his leg. Jon tries desperately to ignore the heat gathering between his thighs, the sodden ache stronger than he can ever remember it being. But when Martin finally pulls off his trousers and leans in to mouth at the tender insides of his thighs, the sensation intensifies until a moan slips unstoppably from his lips, his eyes flying open.

Martin looks up, eyes shining, and the horror those beetle-black eyes inspire in him makes Jon faint. “Does it feel good, sweetheart?” he asks. “See, you didn’t have to be so scared.” He presses a kiss to Jon’s cock where it’s stiff enough to indent the fabric of his boxers, and Jon groans, forcing his eyes shut once more.

Martin eases his boxers down his legs with a tenderness that makes Jon want to vomit. When Martin actually wraps his lips around his cock, drawing Jon into the searing heat of his mouth – _core temperature change_ , he thinks wildly, _yeah fucking right_ – and sucking him in a rippling wave of his soft tongue, Jon’s whole mind whites out for a single, blissful moment.

When he comes back round he’s trembling all over, hole clenching on nothing and slick down to his thighs. He doesn’t look, refuses to look, as Martin slips his mouth off his cock.

“Jon,” Martin whispers, and his voice is _ecstatic_ . “Oh, Jon, you came just from _that_ ?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just dives back into pressing kiss after kiss to Jon’s thighs, laving his tongue over the soaked skin. Jon just lies there, trembling helplessly under waves of aftershocks and horror. Even knowing Martin’s venom is responsible for making him so ridiculously sensitive doesn’t stop the icy waves of self-hatred drowning him – and his disgust at how fucking _easy_ he’s been made, the pathetic, shivering thing he’s been reduced to, doesn’t lessen the pleasure one bit.

He opens his eyes to stare blankly at the ceiling, wooden rafters festooned with cobwebs. No spiders he can see, and he thinks hysterically that perhaps he should count his blessings. The last thing he needs right now is an audience.

Eventually, Martin leaves off his thighs and pushes them carefully apart, draping Jon’s useless legs over his shoulders with the ease of a true puppeteer. He leans in and _licks_ a burning, almost painful streak right up from Jon’s hole to the base of his cock, before sealing his lips around it once more. He doesn’t suck again, just holds it there until Jon’s body stops jerking with oversensitivity, rubbing at his hips. Gentling him.

Then Martin’s shoulders shift below Jon’s legs, and he realises what’s about to happen moments before it does – which is, of course, ultimately useless. He can’t move, can’t even speak, is entirely unable to stop Martin sliding a single thick finger into his hole.

He wants to hate it. Christ, but he wants to hate it, the sudden stretch where he’s been so empty. If he’s careful, he can even trick himself into believing that the moan tumbling from his slack lips is one of pain.

If it is, Martin doesn’t seem to notice. He fucks his finger in and out, cautious in a way he frankly doesn’t need to be – Jon’s orgasm has left him soaked and loose, and his body offers no resistance. _Vagina dentata_ , he thinks wildly, and imagines Martin recoiling in sudden pain. The image almost comforts him, until Martin sees fit to add another finger, and all that’s left in Jon’s head is the heat and friction being forced onto him.

Jon goes away for a little while, after that. His body seems content to be pleasured by Martin’s hands and tongue, and it's not as if the other person in the room is looking for his input. He stares at the ceiling and loses himself in the twisting wood grain, and feels his body shudder from far away.

Then, suddenly, Martin’s face is blocking his view of the ceiling. He’s flushed even brighter, the wetness on his chin hastily wiped away. “Stay with me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and presses a slick kiss to Jon’s cheek.

And abruptly, he is _there_ again, trapped in his body as surely as he is trapped in this house. But of course he is – why would the Web allow him any escape, no matter now ultimately meaningless? When Jon closes his eyes, he’s sure he can see a silver tracery on the inside of his eyelids, and he trembles in renewed horror. Unable to bear the sight, he resigns himself to his vision.

“That’s it,” Martin tells him, “I know it’s been a long day, and you’re still frightened. That’s okay, I understand – this is our first time, after all, and I know you don’t do this stuff very often.. But you’ll want to remember this, later, I know you will.” His expression is suffused with such deep affection, pure and uncomplicated and blissful, and Jon feels an answering tug in his chest; heavy, like a hook sunk into his viscera has been pulled taut.

Martin shifts on top of Jon, cutting off his view of the ceiling, of anything that isn’t _here_ , in this bed. He braces himself above Jon with one arm while reaching down with the other. His still-slick fingers brush against Jon’s cock, and then – and then something else brushes up against him. Something warm and slick and definitely thicker than Martin’s fingers.

The… well, it’s an ovipositor, Jon might as well use the correct terminology – it seems to find Jon’s entrance without much trouble. Even though Martin’s fingers and venom have left him slack and unbelievably wet, it still stretches him wide as it pushes inside him, and his body has no issue translating the burn into a deep, addictive heat. It rips another moan out of him, and he manages to press his face into Martin’s shoulder, panting and smearing his tears on Martin’s skin.

“Hold onto me, love,” Martin gasps, strain evident in his voice, and Jon’s limbs obey as easily as they once obeyed Jon himself. It feels horrifically good to clutch at another person, to bury himself in Martin’s solid warmth and cry as Martin buries himself in Jon. Deeper and deeper, impaling Jon right up to his fucking _cervix_ – except it doesn’t stop there, and somehow he can feel it push past his last defence, filling him completely.

When Martin’s hips finally come to rest against his, Jon can’t help but throw his head back, gasping for breath that won’t come. He’s so _full_ , split open further than can possibly be natural. There must be pain, but the venom won’t let him feel it – all he gets is that awful, incredible heat, washing over him and dragging him under.

He’s expecting to be fucked, but Martin only rests there, his face tucked into Jon’s neck. He’s gasping, repeating Jon’s name again and again with a litany of broken endearments, pressing desperate kisses to any inch of Jon he can reach.

Jon’s still panting and clenching around the thing inside him, struggling to adjust, when he feels it _move_. Long, rippling flexes that slowly build in intensity, each one sending another venom-softened stab of terror through Jon. He doesn’t need to be an expert on monster anatomy to know what’s coming.

“Nuh..” he grinds out, renewed desperation forcing the words through his slack lips. “No, no. P–please, no.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin whispers back between kisses, “Wanted to take it slower, but I can’t stop, I can’t, you feel so _good_ –“ He cuts himself off with a deep, resonant groan, and then there is something pressing against Jon’s entrance.

The egg feels _huge_ where it rests against him, impossibly huge, much too big to fit. But the pulsing motion of the ovipositor doesn’t let up, and the noise that tears away from Jon’s throat as he feels himself slowly forced wider and wider doesn’t even sound human. When it finally pops inside him, Jon actually screams – or he thinks he does, at least. He can’t really hear anything above the thrumming rush of his own blood.

“Oh, oh Jon,” Martin whispers in his ear, and _that_ he hears perfectly. “Jon, sweetheart, I – you’re incredible, perfect, I –“

And the egg just keeps moving, forcing its way inexorably deeper into him, until the aching waves of pressure peak and it finally comes to rest inside him. No nerve endings there, but Jon’s still certain he can feel it, all the way to the back of his throat, and before he can even begin to catch his breath the ovipositor begins to pulse again.

The second egg slips in faster, easier, but the stretch still makes lights dance behind Jon’s tight-closed eyelids. He’s weeping even harder now, sobs shaking his whole body as his entrance is prised open and he’s filled once more – to his limit, he’s certain of it. Surely, there’s no more room inside him, not when he feels stuffed to bursting.

“I love you,” Martin tells him, “I love you, I love you so much, Jon –“

When the third egg begins to press against him, Jon is certain he screams. It slips inside with awful ease, his entrance too stretched out to resist. When it settles beside the others, Jon’s vision blacks out for a long moment, drowning in pressure and twisted not-pain. He tries to breathe but there’s no room inside him for air

Jon feels the ovipositor leave him distantly, like it’s happening to someone else, his nerve endings barely registering it. Martin is still crouched over him, resting his face against Jon’s neck and muttering his incoherent litany of praise and love. Jon shakes against him, trying to breathe through the conflicting sensations. He feels at once hollowed out and crammed full, his hole clenching on nothing even as the leaden weight of the things Martin’s left behind in him drags him down into the mattress.

Finally, Martin raises his head and shifts off Jon. The relief Jon feels at being released is a bare trickle – it’s far too late for it to mean anything. “That was…Jon, that was perfect. Unbelievable.” Martin looks utterly blissed out, flushed and sweaty and glowing with satisfaction. He curls beside Jon, busying himself brushing hair out of Jon’s face, gentling Jon’s muscles as he shudders through his horror.

“Do you want to see?” he whispers tenderly in Jon’s ear.

Jon tries desperately to close his eyes but he finds he can’t quite remember how, muscle memory buried under thick cobwebs. So when Martin tilts his head gently down, he gets a very good look at what’s been done to him.

His belly is swollen, jutting obscenely outwards, the skin stretched taut over it. The sight sends his head spinning with nausea and vertigo, and Jon could swear he can _feel_ the eggs inside him growing, pushing from the inside and forcing his body to distend even further. He pictures his organs forced out the way, his viscera twisted and moved, a space carved out inside him. His body doesn’t look like _his_ anymore - but it isn’t, really, not anymore. He’s an incubator for a brood of monsters.

“I’m going to die,” he gasps out, hands clutching at Martin for support.

Martin actually _giggles_ , kissing his cheek tenderly. “You won’t, love, I promise. They don’t need to grow much more, and the bite will help you adjust. Besides,” he shifts and reaches a hand down to rub Jon’s belly, “doesn’t it feel good?”

It shouldn’t, it really shouldn’t. Martin’s hand sends the things shifting, bumping together and tugging at his insides, and it should make him retch. It does make him _want_ to retch, but hot, rolling pleasure twists up his spine and he can’t swallow back his gasp.

“Please,” Jon groans, “please stop.”

Damn him to hell, Martin just slides his hand downwards to his cock, rolling it between his fingers. Jon’s hips buck into it before he can help himself – despite the nightmarish things done to his body, he’s still so desperate, more turned on than he can ever remember being. The movement jostles his belly and sends a wave of sensation crashing over his head, and he’s lost, utterly powerless to do anything but keep rutting into Martin’s hand.

When his orgasm hits, pressure and ecstasy battering his helpless body and setting every nerve alight, Jon finally passes out.

~~~~~

Jon wakes up slowly, dread sitting sickly in his stomach. He’s clean again, wrapped tightly in cosy blankets that neatly trap him on his side, and his stomach is…he can’t think about it, not yet. 

He’s back in the sitting room, lying on a mattress on the floor and facing away from the door. It’s close enough to the fire for the warmth to be heady, almost suffocating. Jon lets himself drift with it, staring at the hypnotically flickering flames as they rise and fall. Anything to not be in his own brain.

Movement behind him, and Jon is too tired to summon the strength to turn his head. What’s the use? He’s finally been drained of fear, and there wouldn’t be any point to it regardless – Martin will do what he will, and Jon will bear it. Or not bear it, as the case may be.

What Martin does in this instance is crouch down in front of him and tenderly cup his head, raising it a little way off the pillow. A bottle is placed to his lips, and Jon drinks – some disgusting sports drink, but at the least it washes away the strange, sweet aftertaste in his mouth. A remnant of Martin’s venom, probably.

Martin appears to have a knack for feeding people; he never overfills Jon’s mouth, gives him enough time to swallow between sips, and doesn’t spill a drop. When Jon is done, he re-caps the bottle and sets it aside, wiping Jon’s lips dry with a tender stroke of his thumb. “There we go,” he coos. “See, you don’t have to lift a finger. I’ll take care of everything.” There’s something strangely covetous in Martin’s gaze as he lowers Jon’s head back to the mattress. Having someone to cosset to his heart’s content must be wonderful for him.

“Sorry,” Martin continues, brushing Jon’s hair out from under his head, “I had to move us downstairs. There’s no spare bedroom, and we kind of wrecked the mattress.” His face is a blushing mixture of self-consciousness and satisfaction, and above it his black eyes gleam in the lamplight.

“You pick the strangest things to apologise for,” Jon manages, his voice barely more than a whisper. He’s not really up to much defiance, at the moment. Christ, he’s so tired.

If Martin registers the bitterness in his words, he doesn’t respond to it. When he’s satisfied as to Jon’s comfort – or at least, his idea of Jon’s comfort – he goes to bank the fire, setting the grate in front of it. That done, he moves behind Jon again, and any hopes that he’ll be left in peace are dashed when Martin settles in beside him, careful to rock the mattress as little as possible. His warmth seeps through the blankets, and the part of Jon that is an injured animal longs to press into it, to turn and bury his face in Martin’s shoulder again. To be held.

“What happened to you?” he asks instead. There’s no compulsion in his words – he tries, but the net Martin had set over the back of his throat catches it.

Martin answers anyway; tells him about how lost he’d been, how horribly lonely and afraid, before the spiders found him one night on his walk home. Took him away to ‘visit the Mother’, and Jon doesn’t even want to consider what that could have entailed. Martin describes nets of silky, clinging web, being cradled and held up, the freedom of submitting to something that loved him. His voice is dreamy, adoring, utterly peaceful.

With the instincts of a man who’s read far too many statements, Jon is certain that there’s more to Martin’s account than he’s saying. That he’d struggled, fought; that he’d been terrified. He remembers Mike Crew’s confusion at his own remembered resignation. How certain the other avatar had been that he would have chosen his fate willingly, embraced monstrosity with open arms, even as he described his own desperation.

He doesn’t want to think about Martin’s last moments of humanity. Doesn’t want to care. But fresh tears still fall from his eyes, blurring the banked fire into a formless red glow, and he whispers “I wish you were here,” into the half-darkness.

“I am, love,” Martin replies, running a hand down Jon’s spine.

Jon refuses to be comforted. “No, you’re not. The real you, the old you. The you who would rather have died than do this to me. He’s gone.” His assistant, almost his friend. The man who’d loved him.

Martin sighs, but when he speaks again, his voice is still resonant with that awful, earnest devotion. “Everyone changes, love. We can change together, now.” Another soft kiss, Martin’s lips lingering at Jon’s hairline. Below them, on either side of Martin’s jaw, two little points of pressure scrape delicately at his neck and squeeze gently, almost lovingly, at the nape. 

Jon wants desperately to argue, to start screaming and never stop. But exhaustion is lapping roughly at the corners of his mind, and he allows himself to submit and fall under. At least when he’s unconscious, he won’t have to feel a thing.


End file.
